MacAulay British
by patchworkdove
Summary: United Kingdom AU spawned by a captcha challenge on the kink meme. Daniel has Scottish roots and has inherited a property on the western coast, where he meets a scowling, violent  redhead with a shotgun and a taste for whiskey.
1. Coastal Road

Author's Note; Upon googling 'Macaulay' I learned of Thomas Babington Macaulay, a British politician-come-poet who's father had been born in Inverary village in Scotland. When on an epic solo adventure two February's past to climb Ben Nevis, Britain's highest peak, I got lost in the fog around Loch Lomond and ended up in the little seaside village called Inverary. The locals were interesting, and inspired this incarnation of Walter.

Of all his late father's assets, this one property had caused Daniel Macaulay the greatest amount of grief and heartache. Subsequently, he'd avoided visiting the place, putting it off and pushing it to the back of his mind, but it nagged at him like a tender old wound. He couldn't bring himself to sell it and be done with it, for it was the very place of his father's birth, and it embodied everything about his father's proud, Scottish heritage that he'd failed to live up to. His father had started from humble beginnings and battled his way into the socio-political limelight; Daniel had been born with his father's silver spoon in his mouth, but had done little 'worthwhile' with his head start. He made a piecemeal politician, most of his time was spent on 'pointless' literary cavortings, wrapt in childish ideals and fanciful poetry.

Like his father, Daniel had inherited the Macaulay build. He had height, strength and broad shoulders. Dan's secretary said she could see the Scottish in him, that he was built for tossing the caber, but his father had always disagreed. 'It isn't the size of the dog in the fight, lad, it's the size of the fight in the dog', he'd say, in a Scottish accent barely dulled by his decades in the gentle hills and valleys of England's eastern midlands. Dan had always been a big pushover at school, and lacked any of the 'highlander fire' that should have been in his blood.

Thoroughly miserable, Dan rolled his cramped shoulders, stiff from the ten hour drive. He'd made his way through Glasgow, past the infamous 'road to nowhere' overpass that abruptly ended in mid air like a ski jump, vestige of the abandoned ring-road. Over the Kingston Bridge spanning the fog-wreathed River Clyde, and on past signs for the Loch Lomond golf course, also smothered in thick, low mist. Although Dan considered golf the gentle, relaxing kind of sport that he could probably grow to love, nothing about this country was welcoming. Every little detail etched a grand picture of blunt disappointment and disownment. He was a mockery, and not he was not welcome here.

He escaped the fog on the coastal road where conditions were clearer but sunless, the sky an oppressive slate-grey slab overhead. The thin road tracing the sharp contours of the western shore's sea lochs and rugged peninsulas probed through pockets of stunted, moss-strewn trees crowded into the sheltered bays and leas, or picked its way across rocky beaches above the brown seaweed line of the high tide mark. It was a world away from the mild rolling hills and deep cultivated soils of his home county, but this is where the true roots of his heritage lay.

The village of Inverary was surprising in its quaint little rows of white rendered, dark roofed, terraced houses lined up along the seafront. The road became even narrower and wove its way tightly through closely packed shops and a pretty little church, almost built on top of one another. As Dan followed his handwritten directions and his route peeled away from the main road, the more constricted, convoluted and cracked the track became. Eventually, the wheels of his car were mired in the mud of the unpaved, private track that served his father's childhood home, and the overgrown drystone wall embankments on either side brought on a feeling of entombment that was only relieved when he scrambled through the almost too-small window. Muddy, miserable and marooned, Dan abandoned his car on the road that he technically owned on paper but that didn't feel 'his', and continued on foot.

After fifteen minutes of trudging through mud and ruining the socks inside his unsuitable shoes, he came to a small dilapidated shack set off to the side. In a happier mood, Dan might have thought of it as a quaint cottage, but not today. Not while the displeased weight of this place pressed down on his stiff shoulders, sinking his feet into cold mud and not when Dan finally noticed the dwelling's apparent owner standing at the roadside. An angry looking, ginger Scotsman wearing a kilt, a scowl… and a shotgun.

Dan froze and his attention was focused directly on the firearm cocked over the stranger's ropey, freckled forearm. It looked ancient; all dark, carved wood and pale, engraved metalwork. It also looked unfortunately well kept, and fully loaded. Oh God, he'd really stumbled into the unfriendly, backwater glens here.

His silent inaction also seemed to only goad the redhead, who's features roughened further into a deeper snarl while the gun was snapped shut and brought to bear. Dan's innards tried to run away up his throat in terror, which only succeeded in choking his breath away. He did manage to raise his palms in surrender and squeak out a "Don't shoot!"

"What'd be y'r business?" Were the words he spoke, but it sounded more like the redhead was threatening to kill him.

"I, er…" Dan remembered the property deeds and frantically searched himself before realising with a stab of horror that they were lying on the passenger seat of his abandoned car. "I'm Daniel i_Macaulay/i_!"

The weapon was lowered, obviously begrudgingly. "iDaniel/i?"

Dan had never seen or heard his name snarled so viciously before, not even by his own father. Despite the threatening gunman's mono-word response, it was plain that he knew the Macaulay name, but no Daniels from that family. "I'm Zachary's son." He was still standing in his father's shadow, even though the man was dead and buried years ago.

The shotgun was lowered, instantly forgotten, as the redhead took a brief trip down memory lane. "Y'd better come inside then."

Daniel was less than enthusiastic about following an armed, slightly unhinged Scotsman into a tiny shack after being threatened at gunpoint moments before, but he had the feeling that it would be really, really stupid to argue. Where would he run to anyway? His shiny city shoes would give him no grip, and his car was stuck in the mud. The gunman looked like the kind of local man who'd never left this corner of Scotland, but had spent all his days becoming intimately acquainted with every tree, rock and trail in this glen. What other option did he have? He followed the wiry man inside.

The house was small, but was further compounded by being full of boxes. The walls were stacked high with them and the impromptu seat that his crazed-gunman-come-host set up for him was a crate topped with a hastily thrown together pile of blankets and what looked like an animal skin. Then his host turned to the small hearth, which was very close in the confined space between the boxes, and threw another quartered log amongst the crackling embers. "Tea?"

"Oh, uh, yes. Yes please."

"Got no milk, y'll hafta take it black."

"Uh, that's fine. I can drink tea black." Daniel hated black tea, but he wasn't going to say so, not while the shotgun was still propped up so close by.

His host put a little metal kettle over the rousing flames, and pulled a wire rack out from between the mounds of boxes. It was a little clothes horse, which was unfolded and dumped unceremoniously before the fire. "Y' can dry y'r shoes 'n' troos on 'ere."

Daniel did as was suggested, feeling frightfully uncomfortable but unwilling to be an ungrateful houseguest in present company. He was stirred into motion when his host reached for the gun, but was doubly relieved when the redhead busied himself with unloading and cleaning it. Daniel removed his socks, shoes and trousers in record time, placing them all on the clothes horse to dry before retreating to his crate-seat. He pulled a blanket over his legs, feeling more horrifyingly naked than cold.

The tea was dispensed into tin mugs, and Dan gawped at the five or six teaspoons of sugar that went into the redhead's brew. "I'da offered y' some whiskey," he pointed to a shelf in the corner stacked high with glass bottles, sounding vaguely apologetic "but it's not mine ta give."

Dan couldn't imagine that this tiny shack was capable of housing a second occupant. "That's quite alright. To whom does it belong then?" He asked, purely for conversation's sake as he sipped his tea.

"Y'r father."

"Oh. I'm sorry but he, uh, he died. Several years ago."

The redhead looked surprised but not shocked. "Good. The man was an arse. The whiskey is y'rs."

Dan couldn't help but smile slightly at that, strangely relieved that he wasn't alone in disliking his father's attitude. Better still that a Scotsman, born of the land his father boasted about, thought the man was 'an arse'. It was fantastic to find some common ground. Dan remembered his host apologising for not offering him some of the whiskey, was it customary to offer it around? Perhaps he should offer? Why not, it might even be an improvement over the black tea. "Well in that case, if it's mine, please feel free to help yourself to some."

That seemed to almost cheer his sour-faced host up. "Ta. Y'know, y'don't look much like y'r father." The kilted redhead climbed up the wall of boxes to pull a dusty bottle from the shelf.

Dan looked away, embarrassed. He'd seen nothing more than the backs of the man's knees really, but it was the thought of what he icould/i have seen. Did Scotsmen really go naked under their kilt? "I know, uh, God bless small miracles, huh?"

"S'pose so." His host smiled. It looked a little forced, like the other man wasn't used to pulling that expression. Dan noticed that he was missing a canine tooth. "Y'do look like your grandfather though."

"Really?"

"Hurm." He growled affirmatively, as he poured the whiskey into a pair of small, expensively cut and engraved glasses retrieved from one of the crates. "John MacAulay. Older than you are now in all the pictures. Bigger. Broader. Bearded. Can still see the likeness 'round the eyes, though. Was a good man. Died when I were still a wee bairn, but I still remember him well."

Dan accepted his glass "I had always been under the impression that I bore no resemblance to the rest of the Macaulay family at all."

His host uttered a gruff, guttural huff of displeasure. "Trust Zachary t' say that. Jean told me he never got on well wi' their father. Disgraceful. No mind fer his elders."

"Jean?" Dan queried. He didn't mean to pry, but there was obviously so much he didn't know about his family.

The redhead looked horrified. "Y'don't know of Jean? Jean MacAulay? Your Aunt?"

"No, I didn't know my father even had a sister."

"Then y'don't know who I am either?"

"No."


	2. Whiskey Talking

Apparently, his redheaded host was called Walter Kilburnie. Daniel's grandfather had two children, a son and a daughter. His son was Zachary, Daniel's father, an aggressive, spiteful, mean-spirited lad from a young age. After a string of malicious, disrespectful events that Walter was suspiciously sketchy on the details of, he was told to leave and not return. Jean, Zachary's younger sister, was barren and never had any children of her own but took Walter in as a young boy. The Inverary house was left to Jean when their father died, but unfortunately she never formally adopted Walter.

"Y'r father got the house. I'd no claim t' it and had t' go, so I did up the ol' gatehouse." Walter gestured vaguely at the roof over their head, which was now echoing with the tinny drum of the rain as he served up another generous helping of whiskey. "House bein' empty, it caught the eye o' scum from up the glen. Thievin' bastards took some guns 'n' silverware. 'S all right though, I got it all back an' moved the valuable stuff down 'ere where I can keep me eyes on it." He said, proudly slapping the side of an adjacent crate with a violent glint in his eye.

It was a lot to take in on top of a lot of whiskey. "So all this stuff in the boxes belongs to me?"

"Aye. Whiskey, the glass's, this gun… pretty much all o' it. 'S y'rs."

"Well thank you very much for looking after it all for me."

"'S nae bother. Jus' glad y'r father didn't come callin' to collect it. Woulda hated to seem 'im walk away wi' some o' this stuff. Woulda had Thomas spinnin' in his grave, rest his soul. 'Specially his ol' colours. It'd be enough t' kill 'im all over again."

"His colours?"

"Aye. His colours. The MacAulay tartan." Walter tugged at the hem of his own kilt as if explaining himself to a foreigner who spoke a different language. Daniel supposed he kind-of was. "Thomas' kilt."

"My family has its own tartan? What's it like?"

Daniel found himself under a hard, scrutinizing stare. "Thomas' ol' kilt might just fit." Was all Walter said before he started moving boxes. He seemed to know exactly where he'd put it, transferring boxes away from the top of the stack without a second glance until he reached his target.

The finely pleated item was held out for him to take, so Daniel took it into his own hands. It was thick and heavy, the weave was tight but the surface was soft to the touch. The intersecting stripes were broadly red and mid green, crossing one another in a not-quite-checkerboard of colour. Within those thick bands ran smaller traces of black-green and white detail. It looked a far more grand affair than Walter's bland and beaten blue-green kilt. The drink in his stomach loosened the lid on his opinions. "It's amazing."

Walter nodded in a satisfied way. "Try't on then."

Daniel cast the blanket aside and stood, any nervousness or feelings of nakedness he'd experienced earlier were long gone thanks to the drink that had him swaying like a seafarer. He slung the wide swath of cloth around his middle before being overwhelmed by the seemingly complicated arrangements of folds and catches. He giggled to himself at the silliness of it all. "I've never worn a skirt before."

There was a sharp stinging before he realised that Walter had just clipped him around the ear. "'S nae skirt laddie! C'mere." Walter crouched onto one knee and took over. "Some fine MacAulay y'are. Cannae hold y'r whiskey. Cannae put y'r own kilt on! Overgrown bairn y'are!"

Daniel's giggling faded away. He wasn't sure if it was just the whiskey. It probably was the main reason, but he'd also been threatened at gunpoint and had been told that he wasn't the disappointment his father had always painted him to be. He felt alive, and glad to be. His skin and spine tingled in that thrilling way they usually do just before a really satisfying quiver, and his belly was full of fire. As he watched Walter kneeling before him, fingers working on settling the pleats and fixing the hasps, Daniel could feel the heat spreading from his stomach, trickling down to his groin and inner thigh. It added a gratifying weight to his balls as his cock thickened.

"There. Y'look a fine MacAuley as ever there were."

Daniel ran his hands down his own thighs, purely for the liberated feel of it. It felt good.

"Y'look like y'r enjoyin' it." Walter smiled and turned to toss another log on the fire. "The breeze'll do y'r a world o' good. 'S bad for a man t' be cooped up in stale 'n' sweaty troos. 'S not natural." Walter carried on, explaining how men weren't meant to live in cities, that the English Kings started it because a diseased people were easier to control and if grouped together, they were easier to tax, but Daniel wasn't really listening. He was looking at Walter's ass, shamelessly considering the possibility that the kilt was all that was covering it.

"Walter? Is it true what they say about what Scotsmen wear under their kilts?"

Walter turned and stood, his faced slowly flushing red. After a false start, he cleared his throat. "'S up to a man's personal preference."

"What about your personal preference?" He felt emboldened, but was past wondering whether it was bravery or stupidity. It was definitely the alcohol.

A muscle twitched in Walter's jaw and he squared up, folding his arms across his chest. "What business o' y'rs 's that?"

"I'm just curious." He grinned stupidly, dropping to his knees as his hands sought out one of Walter's legs. Grasping it first firmly around the knee to steady himself, he started sliding his palms up the thigh inside the kilt. One reached to cup Walter's ass while the knuckles of the other gently brushed against his balls, earning Daniel choked gasp. He felt one of Walter's fists curl into his hair and he nuzzled forwards at the encouragement, licking a mouthful of Walter's shirt and tugging it between his teeth.

Daniel slowly increased the contact, massaging at tightening flesh until his fingers were wrapped around Walter's stirring erection. It filled his hand with its hot, heavy weight and he pumped the shaft, feeling the soft, supple skin roll back and forth. When he pressed the pad of his thumb to the slick slit at the tip, Walter whined brokenly and the fist that had been clenched at his scalp loosened. Gnarled fingers tentatively threaded through his hair. "Daniel." It could have been a threatening growl if only it hadn't wavered like leaves caught in the wind. "Daniel… y'r drunk."

"Yeah. I know."

Daniel pushed at him, gentle but firm and persistent, until Walter staggered backwards and landed heavily in his seat. The way he sat blithely with minimal encouragement and sucked heavy breaths tickled Daniel's sense of humour, so much so that he barely suppressed further fits of giggles by grinning like a Cheshire cat. He placed his hands on Walter's thighs and pushed the tented kilt until it was rucked up around his waist and his cock stood free and exposed. As Daniel took hold of the base of Walter's cock and slid his lips down over the shaft, he heard a needy, broken whine. It didn't last; it was quickly drowned by the slosh of the whiskey bottle being up-ended and poured down Walter's throat.

Daniel was aware that he didn't have the vaguest inkling about what he was doing, but by the way Walter was acting, it seemed as though the blind was leading the blind. He gently sucked as much as he could muster with his mouth so full, and retained his presence of mind enough keep his teeth sheathed by his lips. Between efforts to free his own aching erection from the boxers he wore under his new kilt, he barely had enough concentration spare to devote to running his tongue along the underside of Walter's throbbing cock. Once he escaped the confines of his underwear and started to stroke himself off, Daniel lost himself completely in the deliciously peculiar sensations of his improbable situation. Bobbing his head up and down the shaft of a near-total stranger's dick, it seemed more like those perverted little private fantasies that sometimes cropped up in the back of the mind. Only better; he had an interactive participant that was moaning and twitching and gasping under his tongue.

Monumentally aroused, he pumped at his straining flesh until he was quaking with frustrated need. Whether it was the desperate sounds he'd started making or the rougher treatment he was meting out on Walter's hot manhood, he wasn't sure, because the Scotsman's climax took him completely by surprise. It was shot straight to the back of his throat with a grunt but it didn't choke him, it just smothered him like thick, warm phlegm. He let Walter's softening cock slip from his mouth and he cleared his throat heavily. Fingers that had been clawing through his hair rested uncertainly on his crown, and breaths that had been fast and ragged were now level and even.

"I think." Walter stopped short with the sound of gritted teeth. "I think y've had too much to drink."

Daniel began to feel immensely stupid, and his erection flagged in his grip.


End file.
